What She Deserved

She had already laid herself bare once in Luxor's bed. The light hadn't saved her.

It had measured her. Watched. Marked her like a relic for display.

Now she carried its verdict like a brand—etched judgment into her skin.

Whether Malvor would still touch her—

That wasn't her choice to make anymore.

She walked through Luxor's golden halls, the rune glowing up her arm like liquid sunlight.

It was beautiful. Elegant. A masterpiece.

And it meant nothing.

She had begged the light to save her.

Blind me, she'd thought. Wash me clean.

So she gave the only thing she still had control over: her body.

If she gave it away, maybe she wouldn't feel the weight of it anymore. Maybe the ghosts would shut up. Maybe the dream would stop. Maybe she'd feel clean.

But all she felt now was exposed.

The light hadn't saved her. It had shown her.

Shown her the hollowness. The cracks. The part of her that still believed pain was penance.

She hadn't come for pleasure.

She'd come for punishment.

And Luxor had given it—Wrapped in gold. Wrapped in kindness. Wrapped in gods-damned gentleness that made her want to scream.

She would return radiant.

Even if she had to set herself on fire to glow.

You wanted control, her mind whispered. So you gave yourself away.

Just like always.

And the worst part?

She had left Malvor.

Not because she didn't love him.

But because she couldn't let him see her like this.

Not broken. Not begging. Not powerless again.

She would return shining. Perfect. Controlled. Radiant.

Because that's what he fell in love with, wasn't it?

Not the girl with bruises beneath her soul. Not the dreamer choking on nightmare ash.

He loved Annie.

Not Anastasia.

So that's who she would be.

She didn't say goodbye.

Not to Luxor. Not to the realm. Not to herself.

The golden halls parted for her like reverence. Or maybe guilt.

The statues bowed. The air held its breath. Even the light dimmed as she passed—just slightly.

As if the realm itself could feel what had been taken. What had not been given.

She stood at the edge of the realm.

One foot in gold, the other in grief.

Luxor didn't call after her. Didn't try to stop her.

That hurt more than it should have.

She had wanted someone—anyone—to stop her.

To say: "Stay." "You don't have to earn your place in the light."

But he didn't.

He watched her walk away like morning always does. Soft. Quiet. Final.

And maybe… that's what she deserved.

She lifted her chin. Straightened her spine. And walked through the light as if it couldn't touch her.

The portal shimmered.

Welcoming. Final.

She didn't flinch.

She never does.

Arbor welcomed her back in silence.

No flourish. No fanfare. No judgment.

Just the soft click of the front door closing behind her, and the scent of magic in the walls—warm, familiar. Like coming home to a place that doesn't ask questions.

Malvor was still asleep.

The house didn't ask where she'd gone. Didn't need to.

She moved on instinct—past the hallway, up the stairs, into the bathroom.

She peeled her clothes off slowly. Carefully.

Like the fabric might tear something inside her if she moved too fast.

Her reflection didn't blink. Didn't flinch.

The golden rune blazed across her skin—shoulder to wrist. Beautiful. Terrible.

She stepped into the bath before it had even begun to fill.

The water surged up around her, summoned by Arbor's grace. Warm. Ready. Waiting.

She sank beneath it.

Eyes open. Lungs full of silence.

She exhaled underwater, watched the bubbles rise like the words she never said.

The rune flickered faintly. Not like light. Like a scar. An echo. A verdict.

A brand. A badge. A lie.

This time when she sank, she didn't rise. Not in her mind.

She let herself drift. Let herself dissolve.

The glow didn't guide her—it mocked her.

It was not salvation. It was a mark.

And if she stayed here long enough…maybe she could surface as someone new.

Someone clean. Someone he could love without question. Someone who didn't need saving.

Someone who hadn't chosen to be touched just to feel untouchable.

But the truth pressed in from all sides.

The water didn't numb her. It amplified.

Every place his hands had touched still remembered. Not with heat. With hollowness.

The silence wasn't kind. It was a mirror.

She curled her knees to her chest beneath the surface. Arms wrapped tight.

Not hiding. Bracing.

Like a house in a storm that already knows half its windows are gone.

She didn't cry.

She'd already spent those tears on a stage no one applauded.

Later, she sat by the fire.

Wrapped in one of Malvor's robes—too big, too soft, smelling like mischief and mocha.

The heat kissed her legs. But it didn't reach her chest.

She ran a finger along the embroidery on the sleeve, tracing the little stitched chaos symbol he'd added just for her.

He'd thought it was funny. She'd thought it was sweet.

Now?

She didn't know what she thought.

She only knew it didn't make her feel anything.

Not yet.

Arbor dimmed the lights, sensing the mood. The fire crackled low, casting shadows that danced without joy.

Rain tapped at the windows—soft, steady. Summoned by a storm someone else must've wished for.

She stared into the flames.

Not thinking. Just… holding herself together. Thread by thread.

She didn't know how long she sat like that.

Long enough, maybe, for the bond to stir awake. For that faint tug in the back of her mind to flutter open like a wound.

He knew.

He knew she was home.

And worse—he knew she had left.

But he didn't come rushing. Didn't send panic through the bond. Didn't demand her story.

He just... let her be.

And that, more than anything, nearly broke her.

Not the silence. Not the storm. Not the firelight reflected in gold and ash—

But the grace.

The way he gave her space when she no longer knew how to fill it.

A small sound broke the quiet. Barely more than a creak.

She turned.

Malvor.